


The Unreachable Holmes

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, John being John, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:36:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10098890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: Sherlock, in annoyance, deals with the trouble of his older brother apparently disconnecting himself to them and John Watson tries to help. What does he do when he finds the real reason behind Sherlock’s afflicted mind? And where the heck is Mycroft?/brotherly fluff/more fluff (s4)





	

***The Unreachable Holmes***

_~ **WhiteGloves** ~_

_-Missing the brothers like heck-_

_John too! :3 Sherlock's a child with feelings~_

**_*made out of fluff and brotherly love*_ **

**_-_ Enjoy Reading!-**

* * *

One Shot **_(John's POV)_**

* * *

John Watson's hands shook. He knew it was time for one of his fixes so he drummed his fingers on the side of his keyboard and then clenched his teeth with deep line across his forehead for the computer screen remained white— _empty—_ the opposite of what was on his mind. He stared up the screen into the blank page of his _blog._ It had been awhile since his last update and truthfully he was only too _eager_ to fill it _._ His hands won't stop the drumming, his mind won't stop the tapping and he couldn't stop turning to the cursor blinking before him.

_If the computer could just suck out all that was on his head…_

His mind had been filled with thoughts he couldn't quite understand himself; confusions he had tried to sort out in vain for the people involved were just _too extraordinary_. All of his psychiatrists— _those who don't shoot people with tranquilizers out of nowhere and actually let him finish sessions—_ had told him the best way to express himself if he found himself tight on the lips was to write. He was there now alright but the page remained blank. _But he had to write!_ Things had been quiet for awhile now except his mind. Not that he planned on specifics— _names would get him behind prison no doubt._ Mycroft Holmes would see to that.

The sudden thought of Mycroft Holmes got John to look down on his phone just beside his computer. Sherlock had used it many times today while trying to reach out to his older brother. Apparently, Mycroft was _not answering his calls_ and wouldn't return either. He wouldn't pick up John's number too. What was wrong with him? He was uncharacteristically _unavailable_ for so long _._ John made a mental note of that. It was something big for Mycroft was _never_ out of their reach.

No wonder Sherlock was ransacking his files at moment to busy himself with and John was glad he was out there in the living room. For the past week Sherlock had been busy not only with his frequent visitation over to Sherrinford Island but also of their cases in London. The man looked stressed enough and sometimes John wished he would slow down. Still, as long as a case was at hand, he knew the detective was alright.

John turned to his notebook as the agitation to unload the contents of his brain got the best of him. Unlike Sherlock, his mind was of normal capacity— _and he was a doctor._ There was his new black notebook which was comprised of quick sketches, isolated words only he would understand and then there were Sherlock's cross marks and scribbles for after 221B was blown with his previous notebook, the detective wrote down _everything back_ to the last period _._ John shook his head a little having told his best friend not to mess with the information but since when did Sherlock ever listen? He scratched out words John had delicately chosen and replaced it with his own highfalutin ones— _even to the point of explaining his science of deduction yet again_ just so the blogger would remember.

But John had skipped Sherlock's writing and was now looking at that page he had written on during the long nights he found himself wide awake and trying hard to _not miss her_. He would never include her on the blog though. She was safe on his memory. He turned a page and saw deeper writing written in slants and with much disorder. _East Wind_ was underlined twice _._ He remembered the island and knew there was no way for him to really ease it all out on a blank space of his blog. Plus, Mycroft. The British Government Head was unlikely to go easy on him and probably have him arrested minutes after the publishing of even the tiniest detail about _an adventure in the middle of the sea_.

John sighed. Was Mycroft the reason he couldn't type? He thought about it and crossed his arms for the answer was _yes_. Even with missing information he was sure Mycroft would still disapprove. Whatever happened on that island and whatever he thought of Mycroft, the older Holmes _is and will_ always be the one to decide what's to go on _public._ Heck, he was even sure his blog was watched by Mycroft's men 24/7.

But did the British Government head think he would really mention names on such a sensitive case? Mycroft was their _client_ on that after all, not to mention Sherlock's family. And the island itself was meant to be _nonexistent_ so what was he going to write anyway? That he _nearly died?_ Wasn't that too _cliché?_ He had posted a lot of near death experiences because that's what happens when you're around Sherlock. Still, nobody ever heard of him being dropped on a _well_ let alone _chained_ by god knows how. The dose of sedative must've been too strong.

John considered and leaned on his table. _Talk about himself._ That was by far the only thing he could safely talk about. There was that idea of getting clobbered at the back of the head by a gun and getting selected at for _dying at his best friend's hand_ too. Except that he was not selected. John's eyes darted towards the phone again to Mycroft's big words of sacrifice that included insulting him. And it didn't even sound like _sacrifice,_ it was an order to his younger brother. That Mycroft… did he really think his brother would shoot him? John had Sherlock point a gun at him many times and many times he never doubted his best friend, not even when he's under the influence of his hobby. Sherlock with a gun was no threat to him but Mycroft?

John glanced slightly towards his best friend who was seated on the sofa chair in his blue sleeping robes with pile of papers on the table and then pass his eyes to the bullet holes on their wall.

 _No,_ he decided as he shook his head, _Sherlock would never shoot Mycroft despite their apparent ongoing sibling…_ what do they have again? Rivalry? John remembered Mycroft telling them he 'never bullied' Sherlock and was 'looking after him'. _That Mycroft_ really had a funny way of doing things.

Still, for the brief second that Sherlock did hung the gun towards his brother, John was so sure his best friend would… The doctor felt himself flinched as in his mind he heard the gunshot. That's why he needed to write.

_Would Sherlock actually want his brother dead?_

_"I don't want my brother dead, John."_ Came a dry reply.

John nodded a little, eyes on the screen. Then he stopped and shot his flat mate a thunderstruck stare to find the detective digging on his old cases without looking up at him.

"Did you just read my mind… _?_ " he said it with tone of vexation but deep inside him he couldn't help but feel amazed yet again by the works of this brilliant idiot! But more importantly—"How did you do that?"

Sherlock didn't bother to look.

"You've always been readable— scratch that I don't even have to look at you to know."

"No—seriously— _how did you know I was thinking that?_ "

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and glanced at John who was staring at him expectantly and had to press his lips quite impatiently.

"You've been in front of your computer for an hour which implies just the normal routine of blogging again but something you haven't done in ages. You've been sitting there without actually doing anything that means you're having a hard time to decide what to type. You've also been consulting your notes to the last pages that tells me you've been contemplating writing about our adventures on _the island_ because I never saw you write any of our last clients cases that means you're still hung up on Sherrinford. You looking down on your phone stops you however because I just tried calling Mycroft using your phone and you were reminded of Mycroft—"

John Watson's mouth fell open as Sherlock went on—

"Putting Mycroft plus your notebook and you looking at me for a brief second and then up on the wall where bullet holes are is precisely what you were thinking about: _would Sherlock really shoot his brother_? The answer is no, there you go, wasn't that hard, hardly any point of discussion."

He went back to his papers without much as a blink, leaving John staring at him, gaping and much interested.

"You make it sound so easy." The doctor accused in disbelief, always forever the awed one. "I keep telling you stop using me for your practices."

"You were there, I didn't even look at you, and it was all peripheral." Sherlock smirked, but when he noticed John was still hanging for his every word, he went on, "Want me to narrate your thoughts since you entered the room?"

"Quit bragging."

"Then go on and start blogging, no one's stopping you. Actually write _everything out—"_

"What?"

"Sure—no one's complaining. Certainly not my brother seeing as he hasn't shown himself in ages." Sherlock sounded curt as he shuffled papers. "Go ahead; I give you all the consent. Let Mycroft deal with it afterwards."

John calmed his surprise and knew his flat mate was speaking out of annoyance at the continued absence of his older brother. But it sure was a sound idea— he ended up shaking his head.

"Mycroft wouldn't like it."

"Where is he to stop you? He could be dead in his house and no one will ever know."

"You'd know." John offered sounding firm, making the detective glance at him again. "Somehow you always know."

"Well, I'm not too sure now, we haven't seen him."

"True. You think he's dead somewhere?"

"Could be worse." Sherlock replied darkly, "He could be or he's acting like one now. Had I known he'd refrain from showing himself I would've gotten rid of him at the island."

"You don't mean that." John chuckled but was surprised at the intense gaze the detective gave him. "You _don't—_ right?"

"I could still change my mind."

"Shut up. You're just angry." John shook his head rigorously, crossed his arms again and leaned on his chair, "Your brother can be a bloody pain in the ass but he's Mycroft. You either take him or he takes you."

"He is a _pain_ but he has his uses." Sherlock agreed quietly with eyes falling on John's phone. "That idiot."

John followed his eyes. "He really isn't calling huh?"

"Yes. I'm having a bit of a trouble with him."

John raised his eyes to his best friend for this was the first time he was hearing this confession. Usually Sherlock was his normal self of throwing around Mycroft's name when he was pissed or not mentioning him at all but would lock himself inside his head. Like a one sided squabble to his brother who wasn't there that John was already convinced Mycroft has his own spot on Sherlock's mind palace— _deemed real and arguing._

"What sort of trouble?" John began lightly with a shrug, "More than usual?"

"He has not been himself since."

John listened and knew what his best friend was talking about. _Since Sherrinford._

"None of us were." He said quietly as he dropped his eyes on the floor. "Even _you."_

"Well, I do manage having someone with me who's also been through a hell lot." The detective indicated at the doctor and put both hands together in gesture of his mind working and pressed them on his lips awhile. "But my brother… _is an idiot._ He won't talk to people. He won't talk to anyone. He's made himself an isolated case of a thinking machine without the need of help from anyone to function."

"Because that's what he does, you know—when the sky rained with emotions I'm pretty sure your brother had his umbrella open." John knew Mycroft by now, the British Government Head was not one to get cozy in an armchair and start telling about his _sentiments._ No. Unless it was with his brother. Obviously now, even Sherlock was casted out.

To think he thought they've made peace with each other after everything when a lot of explanations were required. Did Mycroft just leave his younger brother hanging?

Sherlock gritted his teeth. _"_ Have you ever encountered a man so stubborn at hiding his emotions? I don't think anyone could match up with my brother."

"You're one to talk."

"What? My brother's the smartest idiot ever since _._ And that's saying a lot." Sherlock threw papers here and there.

"So he hasn't been himself since because he hasn't been speaking to you?"

"He hasn't been himself since because he's never showed himself here, he's never followed me on those security cameras, hasn't stopped some of my random acts and have Lestrade arrest me and never called _not even once to annoy me."_ Sherlock's voice had gotten stronger as he said this with the glint in his eyes suddenly appearing. "Now he won't even answer our call—Mycroft _always answers calls._ So what there is not trouble?"

"Have you tried tweeting him? He could respond."

"Did. Didn't work."

John stared at his best friend quietly with a sudden realization hitting him— _that Sherlock was genuinely worried._ Not that he hadn't seen his flat mate showing 'concern' before, but between him and his older brother, it was Mycroft's job from the start. Wasn't that Mycroft's first dialogue to him the first time they met each other on that abandoned building? _His show of concern._ Sherlock seemingly unable to grasp the idea of his brother letting go of 'his concern' seemed to shake him. But did Mycroft really?

"So that's it, you think Mycroft's left you?" John sat up with wonders in his eyes, "You're feeling lonely?"

"I'm not _lonely_." Sherlock said quietly as he gathered the pile of papers and returned it on the box. "I'm… _unchallenged._ In this changing era where criminal class is dull, I tend to look up at the superiority of my brother. You know if he turned his efforts to being a criminal my brother would be the greatest and most formidable of them all."

"Yeah, that's what I mean by _lonely_ , Sherlock." John said. "You're missing your brother."

Sherlock looked affronted for awhile but the fact that he didn't dissuade the idea surprised John more. He watched his best friend collect all the papers and shook his head. He barely noticed Mycroft not visiting but John always thought his presence was felt. Sherlock telling him the British Government Head had stopped doing his routines suddenly waved away the illusion that left John unexpectedly exposed. Him and Sherlock without Mycroft?

It was indeed, _trouble._

Then something occurred to the doctor. "Well, what if he thinks his job is done?"

"What job?" Sherlock shot him a quick look.

"I mean, you heard him—he was monitoring you to update himself of your condition. Now that everything's sorted out he must've felt… nothing's left to look out for anymore. I mean, you're fine… you're okay now." He shrugged again while Sherlock continued frowning at him.

"So what does he do with his time?"

The apparent confusion in Sherlock's voice got John staring at him.

"Well… what he does, minding his business, isn't it?" he blinked as they both made a face.

Sherlock's eyes travelled down to the table. John watched him and had the urge to continue talking.

"Maybe he's getting on with his life."

 _"What life?"_ the detective muttered with every bit of resentment in his voice.

John stared at him again and had to remind himself Sherlock has that habit of thinking people's lives revolve around him. That was just him being him. He just never thought he'd see the day Sherlock, the sole antagonist to his older brother's schemes and really good at it, _was in fact missing his brother._

To have him select between his old brother and his best friend was an unfair question for it was obvious now— _Sherlock Holmes couldn't live without both._

"I'm surprised you chose me over him." The doctor said just to keep the words flowing out, remarking of the event in Sherrinford they never really talk about which also was part of his confused thoughts. "He is your brother, Sherlock and I wouldn't have blamed you if you chose to save him—"

"You don't understand, John, there was never really a choice." Sherlock put the last stack inside the box and halted his movements, eyes fixed on the air. "Mycroft _would never let himself be part of anyone's choice._ You heard him he'd rather be killed than manipulated. Telling me to shoot him was the proudest moment of his life; I saw it in his eyes."

He stood up, the box on his arms but the look on John's face stopped him moving another step.

"I always vision the murder of close relatives and friends as a mental exercise but you already know that. In case of a whim you've no idea how many times he's fallen by my hands. The gun was just one of many. He was just too easy to kill."

"Yeah?"

"Yep." Sherlock's eyes locked with his best friend. "Because he lowers his guard down around me. Too trusting of me, that brother of mine."

"Did he really trust you to kill him then?"

"He did. He's just lucky I never listen to him."

"But if your sister didn't stop you—"

"Let's not talk of 'ifs'. I never planned to pull the trigger, I was stalling time. Plus, it's not every day I get to point a gun at him. The moment I knew there was no other option—"

"You pointed the gun at yourself."

"It wasn't just me, John." The detective disappeared to his room while John was left to himself. Sherlock had never said anything about that incident except now, during his grumble about his brother. Sherlock knew killing Mycroft was never possible the same as killing his best friend so what does he do? Put the gun on his head and when he said 'it wasn't just him' he was talking about 'everyone else' on that fake plane. He weighed his options and the answer was still simple for him: _not kill his brother. So where the hell was Mycroft to listen to this?_

When Sherlock returned to the living room, John was already standing and was calling Mycroft's number.

"Have you tried going around his place?" the situation felt so urgent now even the doctor had looked on his phone again. "You think something happened to him?"

"No, he's fine. I just saw him enter Diogenes the other day." Sherlock said casually while John raised an eyebrow.

"You _stalk_ your brother?"

"Only on occasions." Sherlock shrugged. "When I get bored or just to annoy him."

John let out a loud laugh that fell between incredulity and amusement while the detective found his place on his favourite chair and sat there.

"You have time to watch your brother—?"

"He didn't know I was there."

"Yes— _stalk I call it—"_

"No, he really doesn't know and that's saying something. It means he's stopped having people follow me around."

John considered. "If you wanted to talk to him Sherlock—"

"Yes, I could always do with persuasion." Sherlock suddenly leaned back on his chair, narrowed eyes on the doctor, "We could always pull another one of those episodes with the clown inside his house. Terrify him again to confession."

"You never explained why a 'clown' would be effective against him."

"I never did. But clowns always get good effect."

"Hang on— we're drifting!" John pressed his phone on cancel and glared at the detective. "This is not like you at all. If we wanted something straight out of him you know we could always burst in his house—we've done that before. And you've already _seen_ him why didn't you confront him? That should be easier than reading my actions this whole time! You're _the one who hasn't been acting yourself._ What's gotten into you?"

At which he found the detective staring at him blankly. John's lips parted as he had seen that look before. It was not that Sherlock was just _complaining_ or _missing his brother._ John was afraid it was much more seeing as the man was hesitant to even make the slightest contact in person.

What happened?

Because right just now Sherlock looked like a lost child—the same way he had look when he and John were in a dispute over Mary's death. He was out of all sorts.

"Sherlock… _Jesus,_ you're not thinking your brother left you, are you? Well, _are you?_ "

Silence met his question and John knew it was indeed, _trouble._

* * *

That same day, John didn't stop calling Mycroft's phone. He didn't care if his ear was hot or his phone was hot or his temper was hot, he continued dialing and cursing every time it was out of reach. Sherlock had turned on his chemical experiments that filled the room while Rosy was with Mrs. Hudson who had no trouble taking care of her favourite baby in the entire universe. John loved to take care of Rosy, it so happens that another child seemed to need his attention.

It was past dinner time when after the hundredth time—Mycroft's phone finally connected and the lazy voice of the British Government Head answered him.

_"Doctor Watson, yes—?"_

"Do you know how many calls you've missed?" John began hotly with a glare at the window where he saw his own _glaring_ reflection. He wished Mycroft could see that.

There was a long pause then—

_"I'm sorry, I think you've called the wrong number. Perhaps you mistook my number from that of my brother—?"_

"No, I'm talking to you, Mycroft." John eased his voice down but he was still fuming.

_"And to what do I owe all the hostility in your voice?"_

"I asked if you've checked how many times we've called for over the past week?"

_"I'm sorry I simply do not check the past—"_

" _Dammit—_ how many times have Sherlock called your number?"

_"Sherlock? I think that was over 23 to be exact—"_

"And you didn't deduce that it was something important? You see _Mycroft—_ when people keep calling you— _and when they called you for over 23 times you know it's a life and death situation so you call them back! You hear me? You call back!"_

There was another brief pause and then—

_"Is something wrong with my brother?"_

"Why don't you find out for yourself." John hung up the phone without another word and was still seething when he jammed it inside his pocket. He glanced over his shoulder to Sherlock's room where the detective had isolated himself after dinner without a word. John had notice this behavior earlier but had thought Sherlock was just exhausted from his trips to Sherrinford Island so he leaves him alone. Not that the detective was ill physically, John would never let that… no. But what he thought as mental exhaustion from the trips to Sherrinford was nothing close to the truth.

To think that mental stress was caused by _the other sibling._

_Stupid Mycroft._

* * *

It was around 10:00 o clock in the evening when Mycroft came calling to 221B.

John had managed to convince Sherlock to stay in the living room to accompany him while he pretended to type on his blog which till that very moment was still empty. Minutes later, he found the detective fast asleep by the couch in his blue robe, curled like a cat on a corner while the night deepened—

Till came Mycroft Holmes in his usual bored voice, his footsteps at the threshold.

"What is this racket about?" he came into the room and glanced over to them. At his loud voice, Sherlock bolted up from the couch with a surprised expression while John gave the older Holmes a flat stare; Mycroft gave him a questioning look. John nodded on Sherlock's way and Mycroft's eyes fell on his brother whose robe was wrinkled and with hair too messy. The older Holmes sighed.

"Well, I've seen worst." He entered the room and sat on one of the smaller chairs adjacent to the couch. He was still wearing his thick dark over coat and was still holding on to his umbrella, suggesting his hurried pace to get things over quickly. That or he was aware of John's aggression and would want to hold on to his only defense hidden beneath his dark stick

"Well?" he looked his brother in the eye, "What have you been up to, brothermine?"

Sherlock, who looked disgruntled for awhile, managed to sit straight, his eyes ever fixed on his sibling.

"Where have you been?" was the first thing that came on Sherlock's lips. John watched his best friend and couldn't help the glare he was giving Mycroft.

"For the past week?" Mycroft casually leaned back on the chair with an eyebrow raised up, "Well, my house, the cabinet office, _my office._ The Diogenes… Buckingham palace when needed… same routine every day. But you already know that, it's my trail. Why?"

"You seemed to have removed 221B from that." John piped up, "Why weren't you answering our call?"

Mycroft stared from one face to another with disbelief and understanding falling on his expression.

"I didn't think _I was being monitored_ by this residence. Did you have a client who wants to know my every move?"

"Just answer." John pressed on, his hands now together, his elbows one by the table and one at the back of his chair.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I was busy what with the government in the middle of international crisis. Oh god, you know what's been going on the Western country, am I right? Not to mention the struggles on the East? To burst your bubble of ignorance, we are all in a brink of a war because of idiotic politicians on board and when idiots are put in captain's position I could only do so much to make sure this country doesn't sink with the other fools for that matter. You should know how grateful the Queen is."

"So why are you not _answering_ our call?" the insistence was amazing.

"I did just now." Mycroft gave John a full look in the face. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, for not having the time to do home visitations as often as I would like. You both remember _what I am?_ " he glanced at his brother. "And why aren't you saying anything, Sherlock? Are you sick, brothermine?"

For Sherlock just sat there, staring at his brother with such fixation that got Mycroft frowning deeper.

"One call." Sherlock whispered suddenly that got the older Holmes blinking. "Just one call, Mycroft. You couldn't even do that?"

"What for?"

"Oh, I don't know—to suggest you're still existing?" Sherlock's voice had gotten stronger and there was every trace of annoyance on his face. Mycroft stared at him with mouth gaping open. He paused for awhile, before stealing a glance over John's way and then back to his brother.

"Oh, I see…" he cleared his throat and sat straight, his hands closed at the top of his umbrella. "So you noticed my removal of your security status?"

"I don't care of your security status or any of your security _at all."_

"I didn't think you'd need it anymore." Mycroft admitted looking thoroughly patient, "After all, you're a _fine man_ now. You can take care of yourself, there was really no need for it. Aren't you supposed to be glad?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I never really needed them from the start. You're the only one who kept on insisting—"

"And insistence now disappeared." Mycroft pressed a smile. "It means _you're free_. I don't understand why you have to sulk over it."

_"I'm not sulking!"_

"I can see that." The older Holmes eased back on the chair, eyes on his brother while John remained still, afraid to make any movements that would break the brothers' momentum. "I was trying to get out of your way, brothermine. Give you some space to grow. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Or am I wrong in thinking so?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue and shot out of his chair—

"Who told you to do that." He muttered quietly and dropped himself on his favourite dark chair with back on his brother, his head on the arm chair. Both John and Mycroft had watched him and then their eyes fell on each other. John cleared his throat next, having just witnessed how Sherlock could still be a child despite all that has been said and done. Then he remembered _this was Sherlock_. There was never anything _out of his league_ and being a _child_ was one of his types. He and Mycroft seemed to share the same thoughts except that Mycroft was looking exceptionally lively with his eyes glinting softly.

And then it hit John too. _Mycroft understood everything._

"I should be going." The older Holmes announced quietly that got John's eyes to widen.

"You just got here—"

"I know, but if that master is fast asleep, there's no point for visitors to linger." Mycroft pressed a smile as he stood up and John quickly threw a glance at Sherlock who remained immobile but John could see his eyes were open. When he didn't turn however, Mycroft sighed and began navigating towards the door—

"Keep your damn private phone reachable, _dammit_." Sherlock breathed with much force and curled himself on the chair. John stared at his best friend quietly and then watched too as Mycroft silently crossed the room, reached a hand on his brother's curly hair and ruffled it gently.

_"I hear you."_

Then Mycroft was gone.

* * *

Midnight strikes, and John felt his phone vibrate. Blinking into the dark night, the doctor rummaged under his pillow so as not to disturb his baby and managed to locate mobile. He only needed to see the older Holmes' name once to answer abruptly.

"Mycroft…" he breathed. "bloody hell..."

_"Good evening too. Is my brother asleep?"_

John inhaled a lungful of air with eyes tight shut.

"If you're so curious to know why don't you check on him instead of calling me?"

There was a brief pause. _"That would be illogical since I was asking if he's asleep."_

John sighed again. Vexed this time. "He is asleep… at least I think he is, his room is quiet."

_"Good. How long has he been acting like this?"_

"I… I really have no idea. You were damned unreachable and he just begun obsessing over it. It's entirely your fault, just reminding you of that."

_"Of course. I should have prepared him for the inevitable when I cease to do those things he's already used to. And here I thought he was ready to stand on his own—"_

"What 'stand on his own'? You're his brother— _you're meant to be there."_ John had now sat up on the bed with contorted eyebrows for there was Mycroft again, speaking of nonsense. "You don't just disappear in thin air, you know he's working on Sherrinford too right? You left _him._ "

_"I didn't leave him… I'm giving him the space—"_

"He didn't ask you."

_"I hear you. So somehow it still rings true. My brother still needs me."_

"Where did you get the idea that he doesn't?"

He heard Mycroft sigh on the other end of the line while John travelled his eyes across the room to where he knew Sherlock's room was located. He pressed his eyes with his fingers and spoke once more.

"Just… don't just leave him on me alright? Sherlock can be a handful and my hands aren't enough. I need you on this, Mycroft."

_"I hear you too, doctor."_

"It wouldn't hurt to visit every now and then."

_"My office is always open to entertain. Why doesn't he visit there himself anyway?"_

"You just made it awkward. I didn't think he'd feel awkward with you of all people."

_"Indeed, I wonder why that is?"_

"Apparently, he's still looking up on you despite your errors—"

_"Well now—"_

"Even said you'd make a formidable criminal agent. I think that's sort of a high praise."

_"He's just bored, that brother of mine."_

"He's just afraid of losing you. He very nearly did."

_"That's… a sentimental way of putting it."_

"Well, whatever's happened to him you know he's always going to look for you, Mycroft so stop disappearing for Christ sake. It's like finding a child looking for his mother. Believe me, I should know." He glanced at Rosie's crib and pressed his lips tight.

 _"Acknowledged."_ He heard Mycroft whisper, _"Thank you, Doctor Watson."_

John smiled briefly and couldn't help remembering Sherlock's reaction today upon sighting his brother after a week. Sherlock felt abandoned by his brother that was certain. What more if they really lost Mycroft in that terrible Sherrinford incident? John shriveled at the idea—the damage would be colossal.

The idea of Mycroft however, removing himself willingly from his brother's life reminded John of that very first thing again that he pressed the phone on his mouth so close, he was sure the older Holmes could hear him breathe.

"Just one more thing, Mycroft."

_"Yes?"_

A short pause then—

_"You're an idiot."_

He hung up and exhaled. Turning to his side table, he took his laptop and turned it on. He quickly went on the page on his blog and stared at it for a long while. Then typed the title— because there was no way he was letting Mycroft off the hook—and Mycroft just owe him _this time—_

_The Unreachable Holmes._

* * *

_A/N: Unreachable No More :)_

_My feels for Sherlock tho :3_

**-THE END-**

**Thanks for Reading!**


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